


Pluck forth your heart

by veyl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hanzo is tired, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, angst question mark, deep deep sadness, implied depression/anxiety, implied memories/bad dreams, its more hm.......just sadness, its mostly comfort..........i think, jesse makes things better, sorry for this, ugh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veyl/pseuds/veyl
Summary: Terrors do what terrors will.





	Pluck forth your heart

“Hanzo? Darlin...”

Jesse’s voice is gentle in the quiet dark of the room when he looks for him beneath the covers. His hand smooths out a crease along Hanzo’s side, moves up as Jesse lies beside the lump his lover has formed on top of the bed, and wraps protectively over him as Jesse curls along his front, soft and strong. The space under Hanzo’s cheek is a little damp; he’s pulled the covers tight over his head, trapped himself in the air that’s gone stuffy and thin. He is silent while Jesse’s hand plays a soothing rhythm along his back and as it becomes harder to breathe he pokes his nose out, sniffing in a breath of fresh air. He inhales Jesse and wiggles a little closer, and Jesse stops rubbing his back in favour of just holding him.

“There, honeybee, I got you.”

Hanzo uncurls a fist he’s held close to his chest and sneaks a hand to Jesse’s jaw, concentrating on the rough texture of Jesse’s beard under his fingers. Through the thin sheet he can feel the press of Jesse’s forehead against his own. His head hurts. The space beneath his cheek is getting damper; he lets out a shaky breath and tries to supress the occasional spasm that won’t let his body be still in Jesse’s arms.

They stay like this; Hanzo, a huff and a painful intake of breath; Jesse, humming low in his throat, some shapeless song or lullaby in the empty space between them. They stay like this; an overwhelming sadness and a spark of hope to hold on to, until the storm has passed.

When his right arm is painful and prickly from his own weight he pulls away from Jesse, pushes the covers away and himself into a sitting position. Jesse leans onto his elbow and gives Hanzo some space as Hanzo massages his arm with some annoyance. Now that he has calmed a bit his mind gives way to other feelings; physical, mostly, the pain and discomfort, the stale stench of sweat on his body and the uncomfortable pull of his greasy hair. He mutters something about a shower under his breath.

Jesse doesn’t ask much and Hanzo’s prosthetics are off, and he is very, very tired. He sits on the bed while Jesse draws him a bath, lets himself be carried once it is ready. Jesse is careful, as always, as he strips him of the dirty clothes and lowers him into the sweet-scented, comfortingly hot water. He leans his forehead against Hanzo’s again, then kisses there, then cards soapy fingers through his hair. Hanzo maybe yawns a little while Jesse washes him.

“Which one was it?” Jesse asks and not the details; he knows them all by heart by now and how Hanzo hates repeating them. There are a few: his father, who was what he was; his mother, who was worse; the clan elders; the years on the run; and Genji, Genji, _Genji._

Hanzo closes his eyes briefly and exhales slowly through his mouth. “My mother,” he says. Then, “They are only dreams.”

Jesse hums. “They still hurt you, sugar.”

“It is silly.”

“Not really. Not as much as you’d think.”

Jesse gets it. After all, it is not the first time, for either of them. Terrors do what terrors will, and they don’t look back once they’ve gone. Sometimes it’s Hanzo picking up Jesse and sweeping at the despair like the front door dust. He doesn’t think it is silly then.

Jesse drains the tub and wraps Hanzo up in a towel and plants a kiss on his nose. He leaves to pick out a fresh set of pyjamas for Hanzo and changes the sheets while Hanzo is dressing. There is an addition; a clean serape that Hanzo wraps himself into before slipping in under the covers. Jesse settles beside him again, lies on his back as Hanzo relaxes into his side; head in the nook of Jesse’s arm, his left thrown over Jesse’s belly.

“Think yall be able to sleep?”

“You do make a good pillow,” Hanzo says, nose pressed against Jesse’s shirt, breathing in deeply before he turns his cheek to it, and Jesse laughs a little. “Perhaps you could tell me one of your stories.”

“Of course, sweetpea. Any one you’d like.”


End file.
